


We're still just friends, right?

by xxxShyxPrincessxxx



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: F/F, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-18
Updated: 2018-06-18
Packaged: 2019-05-24 19:23:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,805
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14960621
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/xxxShyxPrincessxxx/pseuds/xxxShyxPrincessxxx
Summary: In fact, that giddy, aching relief thrums through her the entire time, melding with the sticky, liquid lust that pools in her stomach. All the way up until after, when they’re slumped on the shower floor and kissing lazily, Bellamy’s fingers tracing things she can’t decipher up and down her back.Of course, that’s when he pulls back and asks “So, we’re still just friends, right?”





	We're still just friends, right?

_ **We’re still just friends, right?** _

_ **Disclaimer: I own nothing but the plot and ocs. Enjoy and feel free to let me know what you thought!** _

  
Clarke really doesn’t know how the sharing showers with Bellamy thing becomes a thing.  
  
It was pretty much an accident the first time, her brain counting down her next deadline like it was to the apocalypse and everything in her so wound up that it could have been Finn Collins in the shower and she still would have hopped in. And besides, her and Bellamy have been roommates for two years- accidental nudity comes with the territory.  
  
So she hadn’t really thought much of it, racing off to her meeting with a harried goodbye and a mental reminder to pick up dinner from that Italian place he likes. They’re friends. It’s what friends do.   
  
And thus, they had never spoken about it again, right up to the point where the bathroom door swings open while Clarke is wiping off the remainders of the expensive charcoal face mask Octavia had given her for Secret Santa.  
  
“Bell?” she asks, but he’s busy shedding the frankly ridiculous number of layers he’s currently donning, including no less than three types of plaid.  
  
“Sorry,” he says, flushed and wound up. “Sorry, it’s just- I was hanging out with Miller and he spilt one of Jackson’s awful green smoothie things all over me. I had to ride the subway soaked in pureed spinach and God knows what else and- do you mind?”  
  
Clarke swallows hard when he peels his sticky, green stained t-shirt over his head, revealing the smooth stretch of pale skin over his stomach. She looks away, but not before her eyes catch on the puckered scar that bisects his left rib, the one that none of their friends know the origin story of.   
  
“That’s fine!” she says, clutching the plastic shower curtain in her fist for balance. “The more the merrier!”  
  
The more the merrier, she thinks to herself, cringing, nice one, Clarke.   
  
But if Bellamy notices, he doesn’t remark, stepping on the hem of his jeans to peel off the stubborn, smoothie-soaked leg.   
  
Clarke resolutely returns to washing her face, if only so that she has an excuse to close her eyes and breathe deeply. She feels rather than sees Bellamy step in next to her, and there’s something like an electric shock that pulses through her when their arms brush, equal parts sting and excitement.  
  
Her damp, mascara streaked eyelashes flutter open, and she studies the planes of Bellamy’s angular face, watching as he throws some cheap, drugstore boy shampoo in his hair carelessly.   
  
Now that she isn’t gutted by anxiety she can appreciate the peculiar intimacy of the situation, the way that they have to share the tiny, cramped space and brush past one another to duck under the weak spray of the showerhead.   
  
“How was hanging with Miller?” she asks, more to steady herself then anything else.  
  
Bellamy makes a noncommittal noise in the back of his throat, reaching past her to grab the bar of soap.  
  
“Good, before the Great Smoothie Debacle of 2018,” he says dryly. “He told me he’s thinking about proposing.”  
  
Clarke nearly falls over in her surprise, left foot sliding out on a sudsy remainder of soap. Bellamy grabs her elbow, steadying her, and she blushes hotly, wishing for all the world that she could cross her arms over her chest so he wouldn’t be able to see the color creeping down her neck.  
  
“Really?” she manages. “So soon? They’re only twenty-three.”  
  
Bellamy shrugs, rinsing shampoo out of his hair. Clarke watches a line of suds trace a path down his cheek, and makes a concerted effort to not think about what it would be like to wipe it away with her finger, to press her mouth to the juncture of his neck.  
  
“I mean, he’s been head over heels in love with him since the day he met him. It was only a matter of time, really.”  
  
Clarke allows herself a warm, panging moment of happiness for one of her best friends, who is surely going to be over the moon with excitement.   
  
“Of course, when he was trying to show me some sort of ring website Jackson accidentally left open on the home computer, the old Miller's clutziness came back full swing and I ended up with a lap full of kale.”  
  
“Well, you’re now officially free of vegetation,” she teases, and Bellamy’s expression flickers with something she doesn’t quite recognize.  
  
“Guess I am,” he murmurs, eyes darkening a little, and her mouth goes bone dry.  
  
It’s a perilous, unpredictable moment, but Clarke has never been fond of not knowing where she stands. She peels open the shower curtain to regain her composure, stepping out into the chilly, damp air of the bathroom.  
  
“Enjoy the rest of your shower!” she says, skewing something to the left of breeziness.   
  
She catches his gaze in the cracked, dark-spotted mirror, and there’s something soft and dangerous about the way that he looks at her.   
  
“Thanks, Princess,” he says, and she steps out into the weak light of the hallway, sinking her teeth into her lower lip as soon as she’s out of eyeshot.  
  
After that, it becomes routine to share showers, both of them barging into the bathroom at odd hours to hop into the shower with the other, already ranting about the latest drama with their coworker or the absolute inaccuracy of some historical documentary.  
  
It’s easy, not to think about the implications, especially when Bellamy hands her her favorite bottle of body wash before she thinks to and tugs on her hair to tease her and doesn’t seem to bat an eye when she starts to unzip her professional work dress the moment she steps through the door.  
  
“It’s strictly platonic shower-sharing,” she tells Raven over brunch, taking a sip of mimosa to avoid blushing. “Seriously, Rae, there’s nothing going on.”  
  
Raven levels her with a deeply unimpressed look and arches one manicured eyebrow. They’re ostensibly there to celebrate Raven’s new car she built from scratch, but brunch devolves rapidly into a full-fledged interrogation session, with Raven, Octavia, and Niylah serving as the judge, jury, and executioner, respectively.  
  
“There is no such thing as platonic shower sharing,” says Niylah knowingly. “It’s impossible.”  
  
“It’s convenient!” Clarke protests, the excuse ringing a little hollow, even to her own ears. “We both have a busy schedule, and the water heater in the apartment is a nightmare. It makes more sense to just- split the shower.”  
  
Octavia rolls her eyes. “And how do you think that’s going to work out, Clarke?” she asks, lipstick deep berry. “The two of you aren’t going to stay single forever.”  
  
“We’ll cross that bridge when we come to it,” Clarke says smoothly, though she doesn’t really have an answer to the question. “Bellamy and I are friends. We’ll be fine.”  
  
“Speaking of which,” says Niylah brightly, flicking a tendril of blonde hair over her shoulder. “There’s this girl at my boxing gym I’ve been thinking of trying to set him up with. Her name’s Gina. Super cute, super smart, she works as a curator at this little gallery in the Bronx.”  
  
Clarke hums a little, spearing a mushroom a little harder than necessary. “I think that sounds great,” she says. “You should give her his number.”  
  
Niylah groans loudly and fishes a ten dollar bill out of her bra, handing it over to Raven.  
  
“Niylah bet ten that you would get jealous,” Raven informs Clarke, looking only a little smug as she smoothes out the bill.  
  
“I’m not jealous!” she protests. “I just want him to be happy. With whoever that may be.”  
  
Octavia scoffs, a little mean, but says nothing in reply, just looks down at where Niylah is tracing circles on her pale hand, while Raven slides her metal raven along it's chain absentmindedly.  
  
Brunch continues on without further incident, but Clarke’s attention is hopelessly diverted, stuck looping the conversation over and over again.  
  
She walks home, and Octavia’s voice echoes stubbornly through her brain. The two of you aren’t going to stay single forever.  
  
She’s never thought to dwell on it before- her and Bellamy are both loners at heart. But he must want to be with someone she thinks to herself. Eventually.   
  
And then, what’ll happen to them? To their late night conversations and their Chinese takeout on the fire escape and the way they can just look at one another from across the room and just know that the other wants to leave the party.  
  
Spring in New York City yawns around Clarke, warm and lovely, and yet she feels shivery. Losing Bellamy, losing what they have- it suddenly seems like the very worst thing in the world.  
  
Ironically, he’s in the shower when she gets back, and Clarke doesn’t know whether it’s bravery or impulsivity that causes her to open the bathroom door.  
  
“Oh, hey,” says Bellamy, casual. “How was bougie breakfast?”  
  
She unbuttons her dress with shaky fingers, letting the breezy material pool at her feet.  
  
“Bellamy,” she says, and there must be something in her tone, because he pulls open the shower curtain, confused.   
  
Clarke stands in her underwear, a nice, lacy set that Octavia got for her awhile back, and pulls her hair out of its ponytail.  
  
“You’re so cute when you’re trying to seduce me,” he deadpans, voice riddled though with sarcasm.  
  
“What if I was?” she asks, heart in her throat. “Trying to seduce you, that is.”  
  
Bellamy’s expression changes in a way that’s almost comical, and he straightens up a little bit, fumbling with the bottle of shaving cream that he’s holding. She unhooks her bra and lets it drop to the floor, underwear following a moment after.  
  
“If you were,” he says slowly, carefully. “Then, I would- I would probably kiss you right about now.”  
  
Clarke nods resolutely. “Okay,” she says faintly. “You should do that, then.”  
  
She steps into the shower, and Bellamy’s hand laces through hers, soapy and fever hot and impossibly reassuring.   
  
She squeezes once, and then he’s kissing her, fingers digging into her back and mouth insistent on hers. She tangles her fingers into his wet hair, and laughs, silly and unrestrained, when he hauls her up and presses her into the cool tile of the wall, hands spanning her thighs and hitching her legs around his waist.  
  
In fact, that giddy, aching relief thrums through her the entire time, melding with the sticky, liquid lust that pools in her stomach. All the way up until after, when they’re slumped on the shower floor and kissing lazily, Bellamy’s fingers tracing things she can’t decipher up and down her back.  
  
Of course, that’s when he pulls back and asks “So, we’re still just friends, right?”

 


End file.
